Command and Conquer: Forward Unto Victory
by HeirOfRohan
Summary: The Great World War Three was going badly for the Allied Nations. Having already been driven out of most of Western Europe by the relentless advance of the Soviet Union, the European Allies were on the brink of total collapse. But with America finally joining the war on their side along with one prospective American Commander, they might just have a chance in winning this war ...
1. Prologue

**Foreword: **I am currently revising and rewriting this story, chapter by bloody chapter, paragraph by bloody paragraph. Sorry for the long wait though, I've been very busy with my college life and had only found time off to write.

Enough about me apologizing like a sad man, on with the first chapter! Enjoy!

* * *

**Command and Conquer: Red Alert 3**

* * *

**_Chapter 1: Prologue_**

_"__When people asked me what I did in the war, I tell them I did the same thing we all did: we fought for what was right. I've come to realize, there's nothing good about war . . . But there is good in why you fight wars. And we were all fighting for the same thing."_

_-Lieutenant William Holt, Medal of Honor: European Assault_

* * *

**_Prologue_**

* * *

There were many words to describe the scene, messy being one of them, _hell_ being the other more apt description of the situation in the city right now. Screaming missiles, booming cannon fire, roaring engines and sounds of men and women alike howling in agony as their bodies were torn to bloody shreds. The concrete and brick constructs of the city, once proud and majestic, now lay crumbling and shattered under the relentless onslaught of heavy weapons fire. Fires left behind by explosions were billowing like an angry inferno, coal-black smoke blanketing the skies, choking out the afternoon rays.

In short, it was _hell _on Earth.

Corporal John Davis ducked behind a low wall as another bullet sizzled past him and slammed into the wall behind him. Popping his head out over the wall to gain a better view, he sighted his target. Ducking back down again just as another bullet slammed against his cover, scraping just aginst his helmet, he broke cover, raised his rifle and pulled the trigger, the recoil of the rifle pushing against his shoulder as the hypervelocity rounds travelled down the barrel and towards its target.

Davis barely had enough time react however because just as he eased the pressure on the trigger, he was forced back into cover again by another wave of bullets that kept him pinned, with some of them ricocheting off the concrete pavements and slamming into his ceramic armor. It did some damage, but fortunately not enough to penetrate and do any real damage.

Davis cursed as he repeated the process again, this time managing to core the enemy trooper he was aiming for before switching targets. Loading a fresh clip into his rifle, his icy-blue eyes took stock of his surroundings as he tried to assess the situation that he and his squad found themselves in at the moment. Quite frankly, they were outnumbered and outgunned. Against his six man squad of riflemen, there were at least two dozen enemy foot mobiles advancing on the squad's position, which was just outside a blown out café. They have taken positions there to consolidate their position after their former position had been overrun by the enemy.

The tall and lanky Davis cursed again as he squeezed another round downrange, his standard issue Colt M4A1 rifle blazing to life. The trusty and versatile assault rifle has been the standard issue battle rifle of the United States Armed Forces for over 30 years, and was now the standard issue rifle of the Allied Nations. Its easy to handle and manufacture 5.56mm bullets form the backbone of the Allied munitions supply demand for the war . . .

And right now, that versatility is being tested to the limits by the ragged defenders of Davis's squad.

"_Fall back!_" came a call from his squad leader, a Londoner by the name of Sergeant Harrison. Described by his squadmates as middle-aged and tough-as-nails, the blonde man had fought in countless battles during the last war and had the scars to prove it, and he was still going strong now.

Sending a quick acknowledgement, Davis waited for a pause in the gunfire before bolting from his spot towards a burnt out car fifty meters down the street, dodging stray bullets and debris as he made his way over to his new position, away from the enemy lines. Raising his rifle, he let loose with a concentrated stream of automatic fire, sending the enemy troopers scrambling and ducking into cover.

"Covering!" he shouted as he fired again, this time managing to hit an enemy trooper in the leg. Around him, his other squadmates were also falling back one by one, firing as they dropped into their own cover, covering each other as the squad fell back.

Standard tactical fighting retreat.

The sound of dry clicking snapped Davis out of his adrenaline induced stupor just in time to drop back behind the car before a round slammed into the chassis with metallic pings. He was in the process of loading a fresh clip into his rifle when Sergeant Harrison dropped into cover beside him. The look on the elder man's face was the one that Davis would remember for the rest of his soldiering life; the intense look of a seasoned veteran that betrayed no emotion, only cold and calculated resolve to keep his people safe, no matter the cost.

"Squad," Harrison barked into his radio, "we can't stay here! Move further down the street until you reach point two-two-seven, the rally point should be around there!" a chorus of acknowledgements were heard before he continued, "Davis! Howard! Cover us! Porter and Barkley, form up on me! The rest of you, head to the rally point! _Move!_" That was the push everyone needed to put things into motion.

"Reloading! Howard, cover!" Davis shouted. Private Howard, a young man in his twenties, nodded as he cut loose with a stream of deadly automatic fire from his M249 SAW. Harrison, along with Privates Porter and Barkley, ran fifty meters down the street and set up a firing position behind an overturned van which was on its side. The two other squadmates bolted further down the street towards a junction which was cratered by artillery fire, probably during the early hours of the fighting.

Cocking the charging handle of his rifle, Davis rose from his crouched position behind the car and squeezed off another burst, downing an enemy trooper with three rounds slamming into the man's chest.

"Howard, I'm covering you!" Davis shouted to him as said man started to change his magazine, "Get back now!"

"Copy! Moving!" Howard immediately complied as he dropped out of cover and started in a sprint towards the nearest cover, but before he could even make five steps, rounds slammed into his back and he fell face first into the bitumen.

"Damn it!" Davis cursed out loud, as he unloaded his entire clip into an unlucky enemy soldier who just so happened to pop his whole body out from behind the corner of a building and the man fell backwards, bullets riddling his entire torso. "Sarge! Howard is down!"

"Copy, could you get to him?"

"I think so. But I'll need covering fire."

"Roger. Alright lads, that chap needs some covering fire!" Harrison shouted as he and his other squad mates fired burst after burst at the enemy who were slowly advancing on Davis's position. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Davis bolted towards his fallen comrade and quickly slung the man's shoulders over his own. Giving the man a once over, he realized that Howard was still alive.

"You alright man?" Davis asked. The pained sigh that escaped from the man was all he needed before he started to run towards the overturned van, rounds skipped and bounced all around him as he willed his feet to run faster and faster. Eventually, he managed to get back into cover, but not before getting a grazing shot beside his helmet that clipped his left ear, causing it to bleed slightly.

"How is he?" he asked as he dodged another round that ricocheted off the road.

"He'll live," Porter said as he treated Howard's back, "But he needs medical attention, and fast."

"Roger that." Harrison said as he glanced back towards the rally point where two of his other soldiers were positioned.

He squinted behind his combat visors, creases furrowing before nodding once. "Squad, listen up! We can't stay here or Commie's going to overrun this spot!" He pointed to fingers towards the rally point behind him, fifty five meters away. "Pop smoke and run! You hear me? When you popped your smokes, you _run_. You understand me?" a chorus of acknowledgements later, he nodded again. "Alright. Pop smoke in three . . ." he pulled a cylindrical canister from his hip pouch, "Two . . ." and proceeded to pull the pin on top of the canister, "One! _Now!_" He reared his hand back and threw the can as hard as he could towards the direction of the enemy, with the other soldiers of his squad doing the same.

The canisters tumbled and rolled before the firing mechanism released the pressurized smoke into the open in a rapid and steady stream of white and grey. Soon, the streets were blanketed by the smokescreen, and that was when the rest of Harrison's squad made their mad dash towards the rallying point. Davis chanced one last look at the enemy position, glancing back ever so slightly just in time to see another enemy soldier get on his feet, rifle in hand . . .

Heart pumping and feet stomping, the three men, two supporting their fallen comrade, ran like bats out of hell while dodging stray small arms fire from enemy counter-fire. Davis ducked as another bullet almost took his chin off, not daring to look back to what would be a few dozen enemy troops firing recklessly at them with automatic weapons.

"Keep moving! Don't stop!" Harrison was barking at them, "Keep moving or you're _dead!_" And ran they did. The other two men from the squad began to provide suppressing fire to their comrades who were almost a few dozen meters away . . .

Davis's spirits rose. They were almost there, a few dozen meters left and they're home free . . .

"_Tank!" _came a shout from their squad riflemen at the rally point, Private Euris, a New Jersey native with brown hair, and the look on the man's face was obvious; the look of pure horror. A sense of dread suddenly welled up inside him as Davis glanced back behind him . . .

. . . To see a massive behemoth of a tank, its twin projections of death trained right at where the squad was at, coming out of the smoke . . .

"_Get down!"_ Davis wasn't sure what happened, but as soon as the call went out he was crashed tackled to the side, landing on the bitumen road hard as his head were ringing from the sudden impact. But soon after, he was deafened by a resounding boom that exploded from the cannon of the armored behemoth, just seconds before another rang out from its second gun.

It was the worst sensation that Davis ever felt in his life . . .

The twin explosions created a wave of superheated air and debris that flung him like a ragdoll in a tornado. Shrapnel bit into his skin as Davis tried to regain his bearings and fight off the pain that was coursing through him. He hit the ground hard, hitting his head against the road.

Then his world went black.

* * *

". . . you okay soldier?"

Davis slowly pried open his eyes as if they were glued together, but he managed to regain his bearings enough to notice that he was in a helicopter, judged by the sound of the churning blades and droning turbines. A middle-aged man was sitting above him, his expression unreadable but grim. The man had a Red Cross symbol strapped to his sleeves and shoulders, so Davis concluded that the man must be a medic.

"W-what . . ." he coughed once, "What happened?"

"We found you at the rally point, broken, bleeding, and unconscious." The man explained, voice steady and monotone, almost devoid of life. "You're lucky that we were there when we were or else you would've died from blood loss."

Craning his neck to look up slightly, Davis asked, "What about my squad?"

The dejected sigh that escaped from the medic's lips was all Davis needed to prepare for the worst. "They're dead. Didn't even had a chance. The place where we found you? At the junction at the bombed out district? You're the only one we could find . . ." the medic looked down a bit, biting his bottom lip "Well, the one we could find intact that is . . ."

The man fished something out of his shirt pocket and pressed it into Davis's left palm. "We found this in a crater next to you, for all it's worth, I'm sorry . . ."

It felt cold and metallic, and he glanced to get a better look at the object, and it made the man feel guiltier and depressed than ever.

"God _fucking _damn it . . ." Davis breathed as he clenched the object tightly around his fist as tears welled in his eyes.

Wrung around his fingers, were steel ball chains connecting to two flat metal plates with words carved into it. It read,

**_Harold T. Harrison_**

**_587-12-0544_**

**_Rh Negative_**

**_Protestant_**

As the helicopter flew across the landscape, leaving behind the devastated city and suburbs, military scholars and historians would forever remember this day as the day the Free World faces its darkest hour . . . against the relentless onslaught of the Red Menace. And in the distance, one could clearly see the fading silhouette of a tall needle-like structure reaching for the heavens, the once proud structure now a distant reminder of the battles lost and the cost the defenders paid to hold it, only to be driven out in the end.

Surrounded by endless columns of smoke caused by the fires downtown, the Eiffel Tower signified the fall of the Allies's Western bastion of France, and the continued dominance of the new and rejuvenated Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in Western Europe. . . and the highpoint of Communism during the Great World War III.

And now, right across the English Channel, the Red Menace had set its sights on a new target, the last Allied European Nation left standing between them and the Atlantic Ocean: the United Kingdom.

* * *

The Allied situation room was in a state of semi-controlled panic as technicians and intelligence analysts frantically worked on their consoles as more and more reports from the front came flooding in through the military networks, and none of them are good news whatsoever.

The large auditorium-like room was filled to the brim with advanced state-of-the-art electronic interfaces, communications arrays, and satellite transceivers that constantly transmit and receive live information to and from the Allies's multiple fronts, along with countless satellites orbiting around the globe. The Allies built these elaborate command centers on each continent around the world in remote and easily defensible areas to enable high ranking Allied officials to directly coordinate their authority over multiple fronts, such as this one which was twenty feet under a cathedral in London, handling the European Theater of Operations (ETO). In short, it's one of the primary nerve centers of the Allied war effort.

And, sitting in the command chair in the middle of the chaos, was an elder man in his late fifties. But age doesn't seem to bother the man that much as accentuated by his firm and athletic build – the build of a seasoned soldier, making him seem healthier than normal. A balding man wearing the typical blue and white officers' uniform, many would dismiss him as another normal officer . . . but the General's stars on his uniform proved otherwise.

Eyes staring intently at the console, scanning over the latest reports from the front, the man closed his eyes and sighed before one of the technicians called out to him.

"Sir, update from General Earnhardt!" Earnhardt was the French-German commander in charge of the Allies' Northwestern Front, tasked with protecting Belgium and the Low Countries from the Soviet advance. He was at first hard-pressed holding back the continued onslaught from the numerically superior Soviets, but he managed so far with minimal casualties and clever maneuvering of his troops, and now it was one of the last Allied footholds left on mainland Europe.

"Understood, send it to my console." the technician nodded and tapped a few keys on his keyboard. A copy of the report flashed into view and the man quickly scanned over it, before he abruptly stood up, causing silence to reign as every head in the room turned to look at him.

Tapping few keys on the console, he brought up a map of the European Continent onto the main screen, showing areas currently controlled by the Soviets and the Allies; Red representing Soviet, while blue represented the Allies. Unfortunately, the former was dominating with painful swathes of crimson painted across Europe, while the soothing blue of the latter represented only a small fraction of the former . . .

And, with fresh information from the front, the map continues to automatically update to keep up with current events. And right now, the ugly swathe of red has blanketed France . . .

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the man began, "this is Field Marshal Robert Bingham. As of 0600 hours Greenwich, the Allied Expeditionary Forces in France . . . have been wiped out." Silence filled the room as everyone tried to soak up the new information. "According to General Earnhardt of Northwestern Command, the 20th and 21st Infantry were cut off and surrounded at Marseille, while the 93rd Recon and the 17th Armored Divisions were routed at Luxembourg during the opening hours of the Soviet assault. General Morshower's Command Element, the 3rd Armored Division, was annihilated at Dijon . . . the General never survived."

General Morshower was the commanding officer for the AEF, and it became clear that his less than competent command has cost the lives of countless men and materials, both of which were hard to replace and replenish with the limited industrial capacity they have available at the moment. Bingham would have sacked the man himself if not for his powerful friends in High Command . . .

Bingham scanned the room and saw a myriad of expressions on the men and women's faces; fear, disbelief, anger and grief just to name a few. He took a sip from a mug beside him before speaking, his throat still felt dry despite the refreshment.

"The survivors gathered at Paris for a last-ditch effort to hold back the Russians, and did so admirably." The Marshal felt a little proud at what he was about to say next, "A few thousand brave souls held back a force ten times their size and against unbeatable odds, they still managed to delay the Soviets by nearly 24 hours." There were a few shouts of approval from the people gathered in the room, "Although Paris still fell . . ."

He paused, and his voice gained a steely resolve to it as he spoke, "the spirit of the brave men and women who gave their lives in the defense of the free world lives on. Remember this day as the day,_ we shall retreat no more_. We shall show the Commie bastards who they are up against and then some . . ." he paused again and smiled, "And maybe when this is all done and Ivan is back in Siberia, we'll celebrate with tea and biscuits in Piccadilly. Agreed?" That earned a few chuckles and laughs as the mood lightened and everyone got back to work at their stations.

"Good speech Marshal," a feminine voice said from behind him, and Bingham turned to face an attractive young blonde woman in her twenties of average height. With her angelic features, curvy and well-structured body and wearing an officer's uniform that fits her like a glove, she was sure to turn the heads of more than one male in the situation room.

The blonde woman smiled as she walked forward and saluted Bingham, who saluted back and smiled. "We could use more of those at times like… well, this…" she said.

"Ah, Lieutenant Eva," Bingham said to his surrogate daughter, "Are the requisition orders I requested done and accounted for?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Eva handed a thick file over to him, which was stamped with big red letters **_'MARSHAL'S EYES ONLY'_**, "everything's done and accounted for."

"Thank you Lieutenant." Bingham replied. { } Fraternization among ranks was strictly frowned upon by military organizations, and the Allies were no different. So, as to avoid unwanted political and social pressure, the both of them limited their familial interactions to just a professional officer to officer relationship; nothing more, nothing less.

"Pardon me, Field Marshal," Eva suddenly asked, "Do you remember the new officer rosters that you want me to sort out by next week?"

Bingham blinked once. He had forgotten about that particular fact due to war, and along with his age. New officers from the United States of America are coming in, along with much needed manpower and supplies for the war effort. The new American President, Howard Terrance Ackerman, was an avid supporter of the Allies . . . as well as a staunch and outspoken critic of the Soviet Union and Communism in general, and was not afraid to show it publically and openly during his _State of the Union _addresses to the American people. A proud and devoted Republican, he uplifted the American Industrial Capital into the 'Arsenal of Democracy', and he accentuated that fact by joining the Great World War III on the side of the Allies.

"Ah yes, I almost forgot about that," Bingham said with a shrug, "we're in a critical shortage of capable officers and we need to replace them in order for us to win this damn war. Have you sorted them out for me?"

Eva nodded as she handed another file to him, this one a lot thinner than the previous stack – only a few pages thin – the symbol of the Allied bird of prey emblazed on the cover, with the words '_officer roster_' written below it.

"Yes sir, it's done. I've also included their personal statements and profiling data, if you don't mind,"

"Always the hard worker," Bingham complimented and he put a hand on her shoulder, "we're lucky to have you on our side."

It was true. In all his years serving with the Allies, he had never once seen a woman like Eva McKenna before, and he doubted it will ever be seen thereafter. Born to Special Air Service operatives Joseph and Maria McKenna, Eva came from a family with a long line of distinguished service to the Allies. And she was living up to her reputation as the woman who gets things done.

"Thank you sir," Eva said with a smile, "If you need me I'll be in my office."

"Of course Lieutenant, dismissed." Eva nodded and saluted before pivoting on her heels and went on her way. Bingham watched as the retreating figure of the woman he considered as one of his own disappear through the door before returning to sit down on the command chair. Setting the thick folder aside in favor of the more lighter one, Bingham scanned through the documents in quick succession, eyes lazily sifting through the new information. Rubbing his eyes with caroused, wrinkled hands, the sleep-deprived General decided to call it a day.

Carelessly putting down the file on his console, inadvertently causing the documents to fall out of it and scatter to the floor. Sighing inwardly as he bent downward to pick it all up again, Bingham noticed a single document sticking out of the file. Normally this wouldn't raise somebody's curiosity, especially not a busy man such as Bingham, but it's the form itself that caught his attention. Most of the other forms of other officers were more than several papers thick with recommendations, personal statements, list of honors and awards received; typical bureaucratic bullshit if you asked Bingham.

But what made this particular form so different from the rest was this: it was only _two_ papers thin; an application form and a copy of the Academy Graduation certificate. Most other officers would think this as some sort of sick joke played by the applicant, but Bingham was not a fool like the rest of his peers. He had a remarkable trait of spotting talents whenever he saw them, and he was right on the dot when he picked up the paper and scanned through it. The details were vague, only relaying basic information of the applicant to the observer and revealing nothing more.

Discrete, vague, but informative and direct.

Bingham inwardly praised the man behind the form, already sensing hidden potential in the man. He could be wrong and it all turns out to be a damn joke, or he could be right and possibly have a promising young individual joining the ranks of the Allies. It was still too early to tell, but Bingham had hope . . . and hope was what they needed right now.

A few taps of his console screen later, Bingham saluted his assistant and walked out of the command room and back to his quarters, but not before grabbing a mug of coffee on the way out. And left on his command console was an electronic message directed to a certain American officer arriving from the States.

* * *

Navy blue and white uniforms milled about the three-story parliament building as men and women alike went about their busy schedules and minding their business, talking back and forth, presenting identification passes to security personnel, running errands and doing paperwork. The warm-white lighting of the building interior created a soothing feeling to anyone that was in there, as compared to the tense and stressful atmosphere outside and on the battlefield. Combined with the navy blue uniforms worn by the officers and clerks, it made everything seem tidy and well-ordered.

Major Johnathan Smith Reynolds walked through the busy corridors, his officers' hat clamped under his left arm as he weaved through the dozens of Allied military personnel, clerks and technicians who worked in the building. The British Parliament Building in London had become the central command hub for all Allied military operations in the ETO, and one would think that such an important facility would be in a more isolated location rather than the obvious Parliament Building. But because of the obvious importance of the historic building, the Soviets thought no one in their right mind would put their command and control center in such an obvious location . . . anyone but the Allies. Their underestimation of the Allies resourcefulness and unorthodox methods of war was always their weaker points, and the Allies _always_ took advantage of that fact to gain the upper hand.

His left wrist buzzed, and Reynolds looked down at the flat screen mounted on his left forearm as he walked. Tapping the screen a few times, a holographic display appeared in front of his retinas through the holographic visor that also acted as a radio that he was wearing. The screen was part of his state-of-the-art Land Warrior Mark. IV Mobile Combat Computer ("MCC" or "Mack" for short), a new device issued to all commissioned officers of the Allied Forces as part of the new Integrated Warfare System to cope with the constant changing needs of the battlefield, improve combat effectiveness and lessen casualties of standing ground units, synced to miniaturized supercomputers built into the utility belt around his waist and the holographic visor on his head. After identifying him via retinal scan, his screen lit up, showing that the information he was receiving wasn't classified – the built in Artificial Intelligence (AI) would automatically redirect it to his visor via hologram otherwise.

It was a map of the building, with a blinking blue dot on the second floor, which read "Destination". With a nod, Reynolds turned off the screen and hastened his pace, passing through a security checkpoint which led to an elevator. Handing his pass to the heavily-armed Military Policemen on duty, he placed his hand on a console for handprint identification, followed by a retina and vocal scan. The security procedures were tight, lately due to the recent influx of KGB spies and suicide bombers sent by the Soviets to infiltrate the Allied Nations. Despite boasting about its sophisticated, one-of-a-kind spy network, the Soviet's ego was downplayed by the Allies' massive technological advantage; along with the rigid pattern the Soviet spies followed also helped Allied Intelligence to pinpoint and neutralize them before they became a threat. The suicide bombers however were not that easy to deal with, in one instance one of the crazy bastards managed to get into Allied Command and blew the top brass into mush, leaving very few alive.

Needless to say, all safety procedures had been upgraded and revised in less than twenty four hours.

Once he was cleared, Reynolds moved into the elevator and chose the floor he wished to go and waited patiently for others to cram into the small space. A minute has passed before he was on the floor and moving towards the navigation point on his heads up display (HUD), which showed him the distance, and destination of his objective. Normally issued to Special Forces soldiers, the HUD had become an essential part of the Allied Army, being able to coordinate responses and improve survivability rates drastically, all connected to the Mack.

Reaching the door where his destination was on the other side, Reynolds took a moment to admire the intricate and rustic runic words etched onto the door, none of which he understood because they were in Latin. Come to think of it, he mused, weren't all English come from Latin? He shrugged slightly when a roar of jet engines greeted him as he looked outside through the second floor window, to see the sleek shapes of Apollo Fighters blasting at full afterburners through the skies. Deciding that he had enough, the dark haired, blue eyed officer respectfully knocked on the door and waited for his queue, offhandedly switching off his visor as he did so.

"Enter." A weary voice said muffled by the door, but clear all the same, and Reynolds walked inside. And with that, began the career which would become his most accomplished, dreadful and dangerous career yet, and he was expecting a desk job too . . .

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_** Done and done! Sorry about the long update guys. As you can clearly see, I've revamped my writing style to better suit military fics and improved my paragraphing, story and detail exposition so that you guys won't get bored easily. I actually flinched when I read through my story, and frankly, even I fell asleep.

And of course, my college life had started and I, after much deliberation and arguments and what not, had decided to take on the Advanced Levels, or the Cambridge International Exams. I know, I know. Stressful and time consuming, yadda yadda, but I have made my choice and must see it through! (With Winston Churchill in the background)

Anyways, hoped you enjoyed the rewrite. Oh, and don't forget about John Davis yet, he has a part to play in the story…

Until next time, PEACE!


	2. Chapter One Reassigned

**_Chapter One: Reassigned_**

* * *

_"__There was no hope. We were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, outgunned . . . but we couldn't fall back. We wanted to, but we couldn't . . . not when your families are right behind you, waiting for you to come home . . . with only us keeping those bastards away from them."_

_-Anonymous Allied soldier, Amsterdam, Netherlands_

* * *

" . . . Premier Cherdenko continues to push his Soviet Forces into Western Europe, seizing control of key regions left behind by the retreating Allies," the voice of a female news anchor echoed from a wall mounted television was what greeted Reynolds as he stepped into the room. The room was rather spacious, with walls made of wood and concrete colored in brown which contrasted greatly with the normal blue of the Allies. And sitting on the only desk in the room, watching intently at the television screen was a man that everyone in the Allies knew all too well, if the General's stars on his uniform didn't gave the hint already.

Reynolds approached but paused a few steps away from the desk and remained at attention, waiting for the man to finish his program and to note his presence. In the meantime, the news anchor continued to speak,

"Great Britain now stands as the last European nation yet to feel the jackboot of Soviet aggression," she said as the screen showed a massive column of Soviet tanks parading though Paris, which then flashed to a massive fleet steaming across the English channel, "That might be short-lived however as sources tell us that a vast Soviet armada has been spotted off the Northern coast of France . . ." and when she went on to other non-war related news, the elder man sighed before picking up a remote and turning the screen off. After a few seconds of loitering and running his hands over his face, the elder man finally noticed Reynolds's presence.

"Ah, Major," he said, getting on off the desk and stood up, causing Reynolds to stand at attention, "I'm Field Marshal Robert Bingham, Chief of the Allied Military Command."

Bingham wasted no time with pleasantries, and didn't bother with salutes or hand gestures unless he absolutely have to. He instead gestured for the young Major to follow him to his desk, with Reynolds briskly walking behind him. Taking a deep breath and sighing, Bingham spoke again.

"I've been told that you're a very capable officer and let's hope that assessment was correct . . ." he gestured towards the screen, "As all our senior officers are now fighting in Europe." Reynolds was confused. None of his instructors ever said that he was capable, just _above_ average. He'd been also forced to fill up the officers' application form to replace the dead ones, and he'd put as little information and detail about himself as possible, so why him?

Noticing the slight unease in the young officer's stance, Bingham asked, "Is something the matter Major?"

"Nothing sir, if I may ask," with Bingham's nod, he continued, "Why am I here?" The question was blunt and direct, no bullshit and all the being _nice _crap, and Bingham decided he liked this man; a no nonsense and serious officer who knows officering is a hard job to do.

"You're here, because of the application form you filled out the week before you were deployed." Bingham said as he tapped a few keys on his keyboard before stepping across the room towards one of the display screens. The screen blinked once and Reynolds's ID tag and official documents appeared, showing his credentials and other miscellaneous information, causing the young man to raise a slightly surprised eyebrow.

"What about it? I filled it in like it told me to, so I did." he said.

With a slight smirk which slightly unnerved the young officer, Bingham paused a bit and chuckled. "Why, do you ask? Well the fact is that you're withholding information from a superior officer that could be vital for the war effort can be considered a capital offence." The impassive expression on Reynolds's face showed him that he wasn't even scared the slightest. "Unfortunately, your records in the U.S. Army are sealed _but_ I can do this," he held out his hand in front of the screen and tapped it, the screen changing from Reynolds's basic information to a highly classified file.

"Wait sir!" Reynolds said in alarm, but Bingham held up a hand.

"Don't worry. I have the authority so don't be alarmed." He said as the screen changed once again and started blaring big red words, which read **_"CLASSIFIED: FILE 28A76 – ACCESS DENIED"_**. Reynold breathed out a sigh of relief as he watched his commanding officer work his way with the screen. He'd be quite upset if the Allies's top commander would be arrested just for breaking into highly classified information, but then again it was _his _file they were talking about.

The elder man pressed the mic button on the screen, and spoke, "Commander Override Code Seven Alpha; Bingham, Robert"

"Override Successful, welcome Field Marshal." The AI said, and the screen lit up with Reynolds's _real_ identification, with the symbol of a skull in the background, showing Bingham most if not all of the young man's career. A whistle of appreciation came from the elder Commander as he gazed at the screen, almond colored eyes scanning.

"By Jove Major, you've done quite a lot in your rather short career." He complimented. In reality he had already probed the file after he'd found out that the young man's file was classified, and had acquired security clearance from the President to do so as most officer databanks were considered highly sensitive. He had kept on a hunch after seeing the vague information listed, and he was proven right after all at his knack of spotting unusual talents after this discovery.

Reynolds nodded as he sighed in resignation. "It was supposed to be classified and kept under lock and key . . . guess it isn't classified now." He joked. He had gone through the trouble of asking the Department of Defense to keep it tight lipped as best as possible about his history, he even asked his instructor back at the States to do the same. '_Not all secrets can be kept, the Marshal's too smart for that. . .' _he thought.

"Now ignoring your earlier application, with your stellar performance both during training and in the field based on personal testimonies and these data charts, you'd make an excellent commanding officer."

"And here I thought I would be your personal clerk . . ." Reynolds joked, causing both men to chuckle despite the obvious tense atmosphere, "I'd like to lay low for a while, you know, get a change of pace once in a while." It was true; he had personal experience from past conflicts, and had no qualms about taking a desk job rather than a command role. He had been on the frontlines during the Columbian Communist Insurgency nearly five years ago, and he knew first-hand how ruthless the Russians can be.

"Indeed." Bingham said distractedly, eyes still scanning the documents, "You didn't include any of this in your application." It was more of a statement than a question. Normally, officers with a resume like Reynolds would more than likely end up as senior officers on the frontlines, not some desk job like how the young man wanted.

"Sorry sir, I like to keep it discreet, too much of a pain to deal with other pompous sacks of shit that want your place but couldn't get them, so they tarnish your rep. I mean there's a damn _war_ going on and all of them were more concerned about being pampered rather than doing something productive!" Reynolds said, before he collected himself and calmed down.

Bingham let a small smile appear on his lips. "We need more officers like you; men who know what's at stake and do something about it." He grinned this time while a tossing a flash drive to him, "No desk job for you, Battle Commander Reynolds."

Reynolds blinked once, not sure if he heard the man right. "What?" he said confused, earning a chuckle from the elder officer.

"That was a test to see if you got what it takes to be a BC, and you passed remarkably." Bingham explained.

Reynolds couldn't believe it, here he was thinking he spouted off too much and risked court martial, but instead he was given a new rank and a new job. Battle Commanders were a breed of select few individuals tasked with the most vital of assignments usually critical to the war effort, and they act as regional commanders and were not assigned to a single unit, and used what they had available. Battle Commanders also enjoy freer reign as compared to their General counterparts because of their role as the mobile command and control unit. In short, BCs were the heart of the Allied army wherever they go, and the Allies currently have three, excluding Reynolds. When on the battlefield, the BC has full authority over any Allied unit in the vicinity, and can only be overridden by a superior officer of two-star General rank or higher.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Reynolds composed himself. "But sir, I'm just a regular officer and you're already giving me the BC rank? Am I ready for that?" he asked.

Bingham nodded seriously. "Do you know how we choose BCs?" at the younger man's shake of the head, he continued, "We don't look at their accomplishments, awards, recommendations and all that farce. We look at their determination, how far they would go to protect the freedom of the world. And you, my boy, had shown both determination and the skill to back it up, and passed the test remarkably and faster than anyone I've ever tested.

"We need people like you; men who would put everything on the line to preserve our way of life. Please Major, I wouldn't recommend the BC position if I didn't think you were up to the task, '_Columbian Tiger'_." Bingham explained, putting an emphasis on the last two words, a title the young man gained when on duty during the Columbian Insurgency.

After a few minutes of letting the information sink into his head, Reynolds paused, shaking his head before he finally nodded. "Alright then, I accept the offer sir." After all, most officers would kill to be in his shoes right now.

"Good. Now we have work to do." Bingham said seriously, relieved to finally getting Reynolds's promotion to BC out of the way and getting down to more pressing business. He snatched a remote from his desk and turned on the display screen, showing the map of England.

"As you're our new Battle Commander, I've decided to leave the defense of Great Britain _entirely_ in your hands." Bingham said.

"Understood sir." Reynolds replied, a bit unnerved at receiving such a large task at the get go. "I assume the Russkies would be making their next move?"

"Yes, and we need to act quickly." Bingham said as he pinged his console, and a new face appeared on the screen, the face of a lovely blonde woman, and Reynolds had to force himself to not gasp. Although her uniform had a Sergeant's insignia on it, he had to hazard a guess that it was not her real rank. Just by looking at the screen, one can tell that she was slender though only half her body was shown, with long curly blonde hair that was past regulation length. But what caught the newly minted Commander's attention were her features, for she was striking and extremely gorgeous in evry sense of the word.

Seeing that the young man was distracted by the newcomer, Bingham chuckled a bit before gesturing towards the screen in mild amusement.

"Commander, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Eva, and she will be your intel officer and communications liaison," he elaborated, "Lieutenant, this is our new Battle Commander Johnathan Reynolds, who you will be working closely with in the near future."

The woman had a serene smile on her face as she spoke, "Glad to have you on board sir."

"The feeling's mutual Lieutenant," Reynolds said with a slight smile, "I look forward to working with you." Eva nodded, her expression turning serious as she directed her attention to the Field Marshal.

"Field Marshal?" she said, "The President is ready for you." Hearing this actually made the normally calm and collected Bingham grimace, sighing as he nodded for the Lieutenant to put the call through, and soon the woman's angelic features were replaced by a balding, middle-aged man wearing an expensive looking suit, sipping from a mug that had the words 'God Bless Freedom' written on it.

"Ah, Mr. President," Bingham began as the man on the other end of the line, now identified as President Howard Ackerman, set down the mug, "I'd like you to meet our new commander on the ground, Commander Johnathan Reynolds."

"Greetings Commander!" the President said with a hint of a Texan upbringing, "I heard a lot about you from my Chief of Staff, impressive work out there during the Columbian Insurgency, you saved a lot of lives that day."

"It was nothing sir. Just doing my job," Reynolds replied respectfully, after all, Ackerman _was_ one of the most powerful men on earth. He remembered it as clear as yesterday, and he may very well admit that he wasn't proud that he let a lot of good men died that day.

"I'll expect more things like that in the future," Ackerman said as he sipped on the mug, "You ready to send those Commies running back to their mommies?" One unique quirk about the new American President was that he tended to rhyme his sentences more often than usual, and sometimes it made it hard for others to take him seriously, but not him.

And, judging by the way he talked and moved, Ackerman was _always_ serious.

"Yes sir,"

On the other end, Ackerman leaned back on his leather chair, "Well, I sure hope so cause' if you don't stop them over there, the only thing standing between those godless reds and the U.S. of A is gonna be one little ocean." Reynolds had to give the man credit, he was an adept speaker, and was openly vocal about his infamous dislike of Communism in general. He didn't bother with pleasantries or acting nice either, so that was an okay in his books.

"I _absolutely_ agree Mr. President," Bingham replied, "We _cannot_ allow the Soviets to secure a foothold in Great Britain. The fate of the free world depends upon it."

Ackerman nodded at the end of the line. "Then I leave it in your hands gentleman. Godspeed." He said before his image blinked away, replaced once more by the blonde beauty of an officer.

Bingham turned to the Commander, "Commander, the Lieutenant here will give you the details of your mission. Lieutenant?"

"Thank you sir," she said over the video screen. Reynolds nodded and connected the flash drive to his utility belt, synchronizing his Mack with the Allied Military Network (MilNet), updating his software and uploading new ones suited for Battle Commanders. On the other end, Eva hammered away at her keyboard before speaking, "Here's the situation," she tapped on her keyboard and the map of an English coastal city came into view, Reynold's Mack buzzing as it downloaded a copy of the data. The city was relatively undefended, and with only a handful of troops available to hold the fort.

"As you know, the Soviets had conquered much of Europe with brute force, but now . . ." she explained as she tapped a few times on her keyboard, "They're trying to invade England, by attacking a virtually defenseless civilian city: Brighton Beach."

"An obvious choice . . ." Reynolds said quietly, and Eva nodded. Of course they wouldn't attack a well defended target like Portsmouth or Southampton, where the bulk of the Allied Navy's repair and rearm facilities were stationed; Brighton seemed like the best choice out of all of the landing sites.

"Commander," Eva said, almost pleadingly, "We _must_ hold the line and defend against the Soviet advance. If they take Brighton Beach, it's a straight shot to London, _all_ of Europe will fall."

"I know," Reynolds muttered, nodding his head. "That's why we can't lose"

Allowing a small smile to grace her lips, Eva continued, "Your objective is simple. Recapture the forward base in the city proper to shore up the garrison troops already in the city, then hold out until reinforcements can be brought in." she elaborated.

"Estimated enemy strength?" Reynolds asked. "Any surprises should I be aware about?"

Checking her computer, Eva shook her head negative. "Unknown, rough estimates puts it at roughly several regiments strong, along with the support of a Red Navy battlegroup operating out of the English Channel." She said, frowning. "I've retasked a Cryo-laser satellite to your disposal; it should help slow their advance, but not enough to stop them entirely."

"What level of cryo-power?" It was a valid question, and the term cryo-power was coined by the eggheads at FutureTech, the ones responsible for this unorthodox technology, as well other technologies of the same nature.

"Grade Two." Reynolds nodded. Grade Two was an intermediate strength cryo-laser satellite they had, with a freezing radius of approximately five hundred yards, enough to incapacitate closely packed enemy troops the size of a large company.

The Commander nodded. "It's good enough. Better than nothing at all, I'll make this work." He said.

"I have also taken the liberty of downloading the latest of Soviet naval movements in and about the channel, along with air traffic," the Mack buzzed as it downloaded the new information, "It's not much to go on, I'm sorry."

"It's alright Lieutenant," Reynolds said, "What kind of units will I have for this op?" he asked, tapping into the MilNet as the Mack downloaded the latest troop deployments they had at the moment, and he had to resist the urge to cringe.

Eva noticed this as well. She frowned, "There's not much in the way of active troops we can deploy. Most of them are still recovering or inactive until more manpower from the U.S. can bolster their ranks again." she said sadly, checking her desktop once again, "But we do have some fresh troops available for deployment, it's something but . . ."

"Alright, I'll make do with what I got," Reynolds said, "What'dya got for me?"

Eva nodded with a small smile. She liked the new Commander already. "Nearest is the 21st out of Portsmouth. There's a fully-armed light recon battalion ready, scraped together from six different understrength companies from two other battalions. I will also try to scrounge up some air support for you . . . the Air Force is in tatters after France."

"It's all I'm asking Lieutenant," Reynolds said, standing up, a small grin on his face, "They didn't call me the _'Columbian Tiger' _for laughs you know."

* * *

The small garrison force holding the city wasn't large, far from that, with only a full company's worth of light infantry and no combat vehicles whatsoever. Just fewer than one hundred and fifty men were holding a city four miles wide in each direction from the coast of Brighton. They were undermanned due to the lack of proper fresh reinforcements from the rear, and were lacking in both equipment and supplies.

That was the situation the garrison troops faced when the bright sunny day was blocked out by thousands of black shapes that descended from the skies. And all hell broke loose . . .

Captain Magrabi braced as another tremor shook the base. Barking orders to his closest subordinates, who immediately went to carry them out, the olive skinned man began to see that the situation they were in was getting worse by the minute. Forty dead, thirty wounded and three missing. That was the current body count, but the information was already over two hours old. The large room of the communications center suddenly became too cramped for his liking as the situation became even dire for him and his men.

Just six hours ago, they received orders to break open the armories and arm themselves for the supposed invasion from High Command, but the company hadn't even began digging in before the sky was blotted out by hundreds of oddly shaped Soviet transport planes, dumping their cargo of paratroopers over the entire city. And the next four hours became a bloody slugging match between the defenders and attackers, with the latter gaining ground with better numbers and supplies, which were flown in every so often by airdrop. Room by room, block by block, the defenders fought it out with the Soviets, but courage and determination can only go so far, and soon they were forced away two miles into the city, with the main base as their last line of defense.

Even now Magrabi could hear gunfire being exchanged between the opposing forces, and his company was slowly losing ground. The company had fortified themselves near a crossroad junction, between several building complexes. Their defenses were holding thus far, but eventually, if the attacks kept up, they were going to be overrun sooner or later . . .

Looking up as his assistant entered, he spoke, "What's the situation with our supplies?"

"At the rate we are using now, we'll only last for another hour before exhausting them." The assistant, a young man said, making Magrabi sigh in resignation. More gunfire echoed outside, and Magrabi spoke again when it paused for a brief moment.

"Any word from High Command?" he asked for probably the fiftieth time that day. The last few hours had been the technicians frantically trying to reestablish contact with High Command, which were cut when the Soviets took the local radio broadcast station, the low tier communications array of the base possess not enough power to transmit more than a few miles, and a few miles was all they had to work with.

"No luck sir. The technicians had tried everything, even juicing it with the auxiliary generators," the assistant said.

"Damn it," Magrabi muttered angrily as reports kept coming in from the men defending the base. Currently his company had formed a seven hundred yard perimeter around the base, digging in as best they could. The base held the one of two operable mining complexes in the city, which was used to fabricate munitions and other materials. That would be good news if they had a functioning refinery.

Just fewer than a hundred or so troops against a whole regiment's worth of paratroops. Magrabi cursed as another tremor shook the base, probably caused by mortars used by the Soviets, and that meant they had a clear line of sight of the base for indirect fire. That was not good.

That was not good at all.

"Sergeant," Magrabi called, "Do what you can to keep the men supplied, I'll try to contact Command."

"But sir, at this rate . . ."

"Are my orders unclear to you?" Magrabi grounded out; tone even and cold, "You _are _to follow my orders to the letter. Is. That. Clear?"

"Yes sir," the Sergeant replied evenly as he walked out, leaving the battered officer to his own devices. He was about to consider surrendering and sparing the rest of his men, but that wouldn't happen even if he surrendered, they would be worked to death in the Gulags regardless. So there was no other choice, either fight or die, there's no way around that reality.

"So be it," he said, clenching his fists, "Let them come." Magrabi then tapped on his Mack screen, tapping the blinking icon. And, the screen then flashed a warning in ominous red, **"NO RETREATS. FIGHT TO THE LAST."**

And gunfire sounded once again throughout the base, the defenders now _very_ much obvious that retreat was a one way trip to hell, and there was no way they were going there . . . not without bringing a few of the Soviet bastards with them . . .

* * *

"Blunt! Quit fiddling with your piece and get over to the muster bay! We got called up!"

Corporal Steve Blunt glanced up from where he was, pumping on the ground a few more times before getting up, grabbing a towel and drying himself of sweat. Walking across the room, where the intercom was, he pressed the outgoing button.

"I ain't fiddling with my piece you moron," and he shut it off at there, grabbing his fatigues and throwing them on in a minute. The words finally sank into his mind, and his expression turned serious.

It's been over two months since the Allies' disastrous defeat in France at the hands of the Soviets, and Blunt had been in the thick of the fighting since the start of the war, back in Germany with his old company. A seasoned veteran with the scars to match, including the one down his right face, he had experienced and survived the horrors of war, and was willing to fight again if it meant another chance at putting down the Soviet bastards. The Third Battalion of the 21st was a ragtag collection of multiple understrength battalions, pulled together into a new one to fill in the gap of the Southern Garrison, and was expected to see combat in the near future.

Blunt had on his pack and walked out into the corridor. Outside, dozens of other soldiers were already mustering towards the outer compound as the whole of Third Battalion was mobilized, with over five hundred troops, all accounted for. The ragtag band of troopers from different recon units were milling towards the outer compound in a semi-controlled chaos of shuffling feet and bumping shoulders. They were considered small for a battalion-sized unit, but they were a recon unit for a reason, they were the eyes and lean muscle and skill and the vicious bite of the Allies. Leave the heavy lifting ground pounding and support elements to the front liners.

After a few minutes, most of the battalion's troops had already left the barracks complex and assembled in the large central amphitheater. Third Battalion was temporarily based out of Portsmouth Naval Base in Southern England, just an hour away from Brighton Beach. Naval Air Station Portsmouth was the main base of operations for the Royal Navy, and was now the home base of the Allied Northern Fleet and the Allied Second Air Force.

"What's going on?" asked PFC Smith, a new trooper fresh out of basic, whom Blunt found himself walking beside. He was supposed to be another rifleman, who looked barely out of his teens, with shaved brown hair and dark eyes.

"Dunno," the burly and tall Blunt replied, he had a clean shaved head and sported a brown goatee, "Whatever it is it's gotta' be important, heard the Russkies are going to invade soon."

"Invade where exactly?" asked another trooper, his tags identified him as PFC Imlay, an AT missile trooper from C Company.

Blunt shrugged, not caring the slightest. "Don't know. Don't care, so as long as I get another crack at those bastards." The other two men nodded, dropping the subject. Most of the battalion knew about the man's personal vendetta against the Soviet Union, though no one was going to say it to his face, he was close to pure fanatism.

Rumbling into the amphitheater, the legion of uniformed Allied troops proceeded to take their seats and wait for the meeting to start. The amphitheater was large enough to accommodate close to fifteen hundred people, so the troopers of Third Battalion had no trouble finding their seats, and soon the buzz and chatter of mingling conversations took place between them as they speculated on the purpose for them being called up.

"Third Battalion!" a voice called out, "At_ten_tion!"

Every soldier shot to his or her feet as the voice echoed across the room. Colonel Jeremiah Sawyer strode in the room, his footsteps quick and precise, silver colored orbs and graying, balding hair dominated his visage, with scars befitting of a GWWII veteran, the heavyset and tall Colonel was followed by a number of his aides, and he nodded to the troops he passed.

Taking his place in front of the room behind a metal podium, he spoke, "At ease," and the troops returned to their chairs. His aides took their seats beside him, and he tapped something on the podium, and the large screens mounted behind him sprung to life, displaying the blue Allied bird of prey symbol of the Allies.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Sawyer called, voice authoritative and clear, "I'm sorry for calling you all up on such short notice, and I know most of you were on leave and recuperating after France. But something urgent came up and we are being called upon to take part." He tapped again on the podium, and the screens shifted to reveal a map of Southern England, which then zoomed in to a particular area, labelled 'Brighton Beach'.

"As of 0800 hours Greenwich, the Soviet Union has made its move, they're invading England." Murmurs of shock and disbelief echoed throughout the room, and the Colonel held his hands up for silence. "As you all know, they have been preparing for this since the day France fell into their filthy hands, and they have made landfall on the small coastal city of Brighton Beach. The small garrison there were holding their own last we heard, but that was over ten hours ago. Who knows what would've happened to them by now."

"Bloody bastards," someone breathed behind him, and Blunt nodded, the Corporal leaning forward intently as he rested his chin on his intertwined hands, and the prospect of getting deployed again made his heart flutter in anticipation.

"Now, as to why we're getting involved," Sawyer said, "As of 0900 hours this morning, Great Britain has a new Battle Commander. His name . . ." he paused a bit, seeing the suspense in his troop's eyes, ". . . is Johnathan Reynolds, the _'Columbian Tiger'_" Many had heard about the bloody Columbian Insurgency, and how one man with fewer than a hundred troops managed to hold off an enemy force fifty times its size and fought them to a standstill, and coordinating a counterattack right after, and the thought of being under the command of such a legendary individual sent shivers of excitement down every soldier's spines.

Sawyer continued, "And as new Battle Commander, Field Marshal Bingham had tasked him with overseeing this op, and Commander Reynolds wasted no time in selecting Third Battalion of the 21st to lead the op, since we're the only unit that is combat ready."

"You're god damn right we're ready," muttered the same man, his tags identifying him as a PFC Davidson, and Blunt chuckled.

"Maps are being uploaded to your individual officers as we speak, and they will give you a detailed briefing later on," Sawyer said, "Pack your weapons and gear and be ready to move in thirty mikes; Reynolds himself is leading the op, and we'll be rendezvousing with him on the outskirts of Brighton in an hour. Dismissed!"

As soon as the order was given, the troops rose from their seats and began marshalling out of the amphitheater, and within minutes the room was empty. Outside the muster area, Allied soldiers were quickly gathering into their respective squads and platoons, murmurs of conversation were intermixed with shouted orders, officers barking orders over the din of distant ship engines and roaring turbofans of the fighter jets. Blunt quickly made his way towards B Company, and joined with his fellows in Third Platoon. Staff Sergeant Anton Carino was waiting for everyone in his platoon to arrive, and once the band of troops had assembled, the brown haired, brown eyed young officer nodded.

"Alright, platoon," the light-skinned man called with a hint of an Italian accent, "Maps are being uploaded to you as we speak, so check your pads. The new BC hasn't given us individual assignments yet, and has given the task of sorting them out to us individual officers. B Company will be forming the spearhead, and we'll be reconnoitering, so we're going on foot for this op, and try to link up with the troopers of the garrison there . . . if they're still alive. The rest of the battalion will be following in trucks and Multigunners, understand?" A chorus of affirmatives was heard, and Carino nodded. He tapped something on his pad and spoke again.

"Maps have been distributed to the rest of you, the battle plan is simple," Carino elaborated, "we get in, sweep the area and kill anyone who's not registered in your HUDs, but watch out for civvies, as some might still be hanging around. After securing the forward operating base and linking up with the garrison, the rest of the op is up to the BC."

He looked over his troops, pausing as he put his data pad away, and nodded once.

"Alright, we're going to war ladies and gents, so gear up accordingly, preferably with a heavy load out. We don't know what their force concentration is, so be ready for anything. Report to the armory and get loaded up and be here by twenty. Dismissed!"

* * *

The outlying suburbs of Brighton Beach were a myriad of chaos and disorder as civilians tried to flee the city in hopes of getting away in time before the fighting spreads, with Allied MPs trying desperately to maintain order. The civilians were carrying all sorts of personal items, luggage, family members, even a _refrigerator_ . . . That was the scene Reynolds came upon when he arrived at the Division rally point, where he would meet up with Third Battalion in less than an hour later. In the distance, in the direction of the city, he could clearly see the outline of tracer rounds and billowing smoke from the city.

Stepping out of the buggy-like Infantry Fighting Vehicle, the Multigunner would be mistaken for a child's remote-controlled car, but the quad-linked 180mm missile racks mounted on the back of it quickly dispelled that illusion, and Reynolds was quickly greeted by two of the MPs as they saluted him.

"Commander Reynolds?" one asked, his tag identifying him as Corporal Kenneth, and Reynolds nodded. "Follow me sir, Commander Price wants to see you."

"Of course," Reynolds had heard from Eva that this was a joint mission with another Battle Commander, fresh from the Allies' Northern Campaign which halted the Soviet advance west of the Netherlands, and he had heard his partner, a man by the name of Giles Price, was a jolly and energetic fellow, even if he was a bit melodramatic. He sighed as he thought about it; he'd met those types before, men or women who were too uptight and arrogant which caused them to develop a sort of self-righteousness normally associated with bureaucrats and politicians. A security detail formed up behind him, and they made their way towards one of the hastily erected command tents. When he entered, he was greeted by a middle-aged man with an athletic build whose icy-orbs concentrated on the holographic display in the middle of the tent.

Pausing a few steps away from the man, Reynolds waited for his counterpart to take note of his presence, and after a few seconds of loitering, the other man finally noted his presence as he smiled.

"Ah, greetings!" the man joyfully said, English accent heavy in his tone, extending his hand for Reynolds to shake, which he did, "You must be the new Commander, Reynolds was it? You know, you were making quite the buzz around these parts, how's it feel to be a celebrity?" he joked, which Reynolds just chuckled as he clasped the man's hand with his own in a strong, firm grip. The man's grip was also strong, which spoke of confidence and years of experience ingrained into him during the war. Not much older than Reynolds himself, the brown haired man was a proud Englishmen, born and bred in Coventry.

"It feels weird, but enlightening," Reynolds replied, shrugging his shoulders, "And you must be Battle Commander Giles Price." Giles Price, RAF Ace of Aces and primary contributor, backer and pioneer of the Allied Air Forces. And between the two of them, Reynolds could honestly say that the man in front of him was even more renowned than him.

"Indeed I am. It's nice to finally meet another one of us. I was getting bored with all the same faces every day . . ."

Deciding that enough chitchat for the time being, even if the man was friendly and warm, this spoke nothing of arrogance of any sort, which prompted Reynolds to not judge a book by its reviews or cover, he asked, "What's the situation in Brighton? Marshal Bingham only told me enough to get me here; I need a more detailed opinion."

Price seemed to deflate slightly as he tapped a blinking icon on his Mack, the holographic projector shifted to reveal a more detailed map of the city, and the painful red of enemy dispositions dominating the screen. Frowning Reynolds leaned forward intently, carefully studying the map.

"Quite a mess we've got ourselves in," Price commented dryly, and Reynolds couldn't help but nod sullenly. If the information was right, the main base was going to be overwhelmed by the regimental-sized Soviet paratroops in a matter of hours, not to mention the sizable landing force approaching from the South along with the Soviet naval battlegroup. Third Battalion was still an hour out, and it was comprised only about five hundred or so soldiers, not enough to hold off an invasion.

"What's the status of our air support?" If they achieved air superiority, it will make the coming fight a hell of a lot easier. To his dismay, Price just shook his head negative.

"Won't be up for another three hours, more or less, we're on our own from the start and if, by Jove we managed to hold out for more than three hours, we'll have friendly skies."

"Then we just have to hold, won't we?" Reynolds surmised, frowning, "I've got Third Battalion from the 21st Recon on route from Portsmouth, recon battalion, not a lot of manpower but a whole lot talons, lean muscle and guts, what's your unit?"

"Fourth Battalion of the 103rd Recon. Good chaps, recon battalion like yours, but with a lot more experience." Giles said proudly, and Reynolds was starting to see the more stuck up side of the other Battle Commander. He took back his reservations on that one, even if the man was stuck up at times, he was a good man from what Reynolds could tell.

Considering his options as he analyzed the map, Reynolds noticed that the main Soviet assault was focused on the base itself, and had left their flanks wide open, with only a few squads covering their rear. IMINT has also identified various points of entry to the city which would keep their own forces nearly undetectable until they opened fire, using the unscathed buildings for cover and, if the recon troops live up to their expectations, the Soviets wouldn't even have a prayer.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when Price spoke, "I see you've thought of a plan?"

"I've got some ideas, yeah," Reynolds replied, slightly surprised, "How do you know?"

Price smiled. "When you have spent time as long as I have on the field, you pick up a few tricks," he explained, chuckling. "You have a certain glint in your eyes when you made a breakthrough; I swear to God you're easier to read compared to a road sign."

"Touché, my mom always told me that, couldn't keep a lie longer than a day."

Price nodded, placing his hands on either side of the table, leaning in. "So, what's the play?" and Reynolds grinned lightly, mirrored by the Englishmen a few seconds later. Now he was positive that he liked the man.

* * *

The armory door hissed open, and Gunnery Sergeant Mallory stepped into the room. On the walls lining the room, were racks lined with every kind of small arms weapons in the Allied Arsenal: M4A1 assault rifles in racks on either side, M249 squad automatic weapons were on the shelves further back, and AWP sniper rifles on a special rack specifically designed to store them. Grummond-8 pump-action shotguns lined the walls at the end of the room, and FGM-170 Javelin II missile launchers were secured behind a second armored door further back, and Mallory set about to unlock it, his two assistants entering behind him as they began grabbing rifles off the wall racks and distributing them to the line of soldiers outside.

Corporal Blunt grabbed his M4A1 and checked it as he moved out of the way of his fellow soldiers, seeing nothing out of place. Once done with his inspection, he began grabbing ammunition from one of the other assistants, a big, burly young man by the name of PFC Kingsman.

"Is this your first time going into combat?" asked a soldier who Blunt found himself standing beside, also gathering ammunition and fitting them into their magazines. His tags identified him as Private Moreno, a rifleman from A Company.

"No, it's actually my tenth," Blunt replied, standing up and packing his pack with extra ammo and water, along with his other gear. "I thought you guys would know of my rep."

"Actually, I don't," the younger Private admitted, attaching an underslung grenade launcher mod to his M4, locking it in place. "I just got deployed, finished basic a week ago."

"A rookie? Well, keep your eyes peeled kid, and you'd actually live long enough to learn something." Blunt commented dryly, and he started strapping on his armor. _'Dragon Skin'_ torso vest armor – consisted of silicon carbide ceramic matrices and laminates, much like conventional ceramic plates but much lighter, worn over a microfiber Kevlar netting underneath, along with shoulder guards, elbows and knee pads. '_Dragon Skin' _Snap-On shin guards and leg armor followed. Protection wise, it was a much heavier getup as compared to what their predecessors would've worn during GWWI and GWWII, but weight wise, it was ten times as light. But this kind of protection was nothing as compared to the close-quarters troopers of C Company's Peacekeepers, who wore the heavy-duty version of the standard _DS_ armor, which could stop a high powered rifle round at point-blank, along with a riot shield and packing Grummond-8s.

_Absolute_ juggernauts of death.

"Check me kid?" Blunt said, turning around. Moreno ran over the straps and gear, making sure that the armor was properly fitted. Satisfied with his inspection, the young man tapped Blunt's shoulder, indicating he was done.

"You're good man,"

"Thanks kid," Moreno turned and Blunt inspected the Private's armor and load-bearing gear. "You're good, rookie."

"You know anything about the new BC?" Moreno asked as he finished, grabbing a few grenades and storing it in the vest pouches.

"Never cared to know about these things," Blunt replied, shaking his head, "Heard he was some kind of hero during the Columbian Insurgency back in '87 when that country went cuckoo, held off an entire army with rifles and bayonets."

"Damn, sounds badass." The younger man said, and all murmurs of conversation ceased when a lone figure entered the armory. A tall and lanky, icy-orbed blonde haired man went over to one of the assistants, grabbed a rifle and started gathering ammo, all under the pitied and curious gazes of his fellows.

Moreno didn't quite knew what was going on, and Blunt elaborated, "He's had it rough, kid, don't mess with him."

"Who is that?"

"Sergeant John Davis, the last known survivor of the 21st Infantry, fought in Paris where his entire division was wiped out." The man shook his head as he grabbed a nearby helmet from the racks, "When the medics came, found him next to a crater, almost dead along with the rest of his squad. Should've died, but didn't, and he's been like that since coming to Third Battalion."

"Jesus." Moreno breathed, and couldn't help but feel bad for the man.

Unknown to them, Davis glanced back towards the duo out of the corner of his eye, and he sighed as he donned his armor and grabbed his helmet, silently praying that the next squad he was put with will last longer than the last one, and proceeded to walk out of the armory.

"An entire god_damned_ invasion force," Moreno said, grabbing his helmet. "This is what I signed up for!"

"Don't count your chickens before they've hatched kid." Blunt said with a grin, strapping on his own helmet and visor.

* * *

The sound of rumbling diesel engines an hour later was what greeted the troopers of Fourth Battalion, signaling the arrival of their fellow soldiers from Third Battalion. Colonel John Wilkins stepped out of his command tent, pinging his Mack for authentication with Third's IFF codes. A Multigunner IFV pulled up, and Colonel Sawyer stepped out of the vehicles' confines, giving a walking salute to his counterpart and extending his hand for a shake.

"Sawyer, you old bat, about time you guys got here." Wilkins said, the dark haired male grunted, amused. "We were starting to think maybe you boys got lost."

"Well, we got a little held up by the traffic." The heavyset Sawyer replied with a grin. "So, where's the new BC that's supposed to clean up this mess?"

Wilkins gestured somewhere behind him, and Sawyer peered his head over the man's shoulder to see two middle-aged men in the command tent, standing over a video conference table, one whom Sawyer recognized as the hotshot Commander Price, and the other he recognized from the battle reports during the Insurgency. After all, he had been the man's superior officer once, ferreting insurgent bases in Columbia.

Sawyer wasted no time as he waltzed into the command tent, gaining the two men's attention. Price's expression was neutral and blank, but the man next to him showed recognition.

Sawyer saluted, and extended his hand, "Colonel Jeremiah Sawyer, Third Battalion, 21st Recon."

"Johnathan Reynolds," the young man replied, shaking the extended hand, "It's good to see you sir." Reynolds remembered the man in front of him well, veteran of the last war and commanding officer of his battalion back in Columbia, and if anyone could bring the pain to anyone, it was him.

"You've got it wrong son, _I'm_ the one who should be addressing you as sir." The elder man said, chuckling, "But it's good to see you in good health, got promoted and all the good stuff, how's the arm?"

"Still working, doc says it'll take me a couple more weeks to remove the plates though," Reynolds replied, rotating his left forearm, showing a nasty scar that ran down from the biceps to the hand – a relic from the Insurgency.

"I'd hate to cut this reunion short," Reynolds said, voice authoritative and sharp, "But if we don't move now, the garrison in Brighton would be mush in a matter of hours."

"Agreed," Price finally spoke up beside him as he tapped the pad on his arm, "I've distributed the maps to your battalion, and it's being uploaded. Reynolds, I'll begin the assault on your go, I'd best be on my way." And with that, Price walked out of the tent with Wilkins in tow, heading back to their battalion.

"Well then, Commander, Third Battalion's waiting for you." Sawyer said with a slight grin, gesturing towards the column of vehicles lined up on the road. Reynolds walked towards one of the troop trucks, the one in the lead, and climbed into the back, where two dozen or so soldiers sat on the benches lining the sides, their weapons and gear stowed at their feet. The troops in the truck regarded him with mixed expressions, ranging from young Privates and PFCs fresh out of boot camp, barely out of their teens at best, to a few grizzled Sergeants and higher-ups that were older than Reynolds and had the scars to match. He had deliberately chose this transport as it was not an officers one, which Sawyer went ahead and boarded the transport on front.

Reynolds didn't bother to board an officer's transport; instead he found a spare seat in the troop compartment and sat in between two Privates, and more than a few soldiers raised surprised eyebrows at his move. Even when he was still a Major, he'd made it a point to familiarize himself with his troops, after all they would be under his command and he would have to trust them to carry out his orders.

Patching his Mack through to the battalion's radio frequency, the convoy started rumbling down the road to the city, along with a dozen or so similar vehicles and IFVs, ferrying the whole battalion towards its destination. Judging by the speed in which the trucks were moving, Reynolds estimated they would reach the city limits in under ten minutes, fifteen at most.

"Alright, boys and girls of Third Battalion," Reynolds called over the radio, "This is Battle Commander Reynolds, as some of you might've heard of me already, so you must know why we're here."

"What is it, sir?" a random trooper asked, only to be quieted by another half a second later.

Sensing the ill-hidden nervousness and fear in the trooper's tone, Reynolds grinned a bit, as he spoke again, "Premier Cherdenko was apparently robbed of his exclusive-edition porno magazines by one of our spies," he reported, voice level and serious, "and was sending his boys over to rob Field Marshal Bingham's collection. We're here to make sure that they don't even scratch the hard cover version of those exclusive pornos." Laughter echoed from the radio from the troops, and Reynolds just shook his head in amusement.

"As you all have known, Brighton Beach is being invaded," Reynolds said, completely serious this time, after the laughter sobered, "Soviet paratroopers had taken over half the city, and the garrison we have there is being overwhelmed. IMINT has pinpointed a Soviet naval battlegroup closing in on the city, along with several regiments' worth of troops and equipment. Air Force is pretty badly mauled after that fiasco in France, but they promised us support within the day. So, at worst we could have a neutral sky at best.

"The plan is to kill all the paratroopers before the main force lands, and establish a defensive line along the coast, here, here, and here." Reynolds explained, a tap on his Mack had the AI sending the information to the entire battalion. "We'll use the buildings for cover, these narrow streets for ambushes, and bottleneck them here at the main road junction, right in front of the base. We'll be working with Fourth Battalion of the 103rd on this, and they'll keep our flanks secure while we hold off the main force."

"Do we have any armored support during this op?" another soldier asked, his IFF codes identifying him as a Corporal Blunt, and his accent spoke of a Brooklyn upbringing, meaning he was an all American, like himself.

"No. High Command deemed them too valuable to risk during this op; we'll need them to defend London if things go south." Reynolds explained, "We'll be working only with Multigunners and light vehicle support, and we'll have to make do with what we've got. Understood?"

The troops sounded off their agreements, and Reynolds nodded.

"Oh, joy." Another trooper said sarcastically, a PFC named Lindsey, which was followed by the chastising by her fellows.

"Damn straight, Private." Reynolds replied, surprising a few of those present. Tapping his Mack and linking up with the MilNet, Reynolds checked the latest reports sent to him by Price, and he nodded. "I've just received a report from Commander Price, Fourth Battalion's on route."

He paused, took a deep breath, and spoke.

"I won't lie to you; this may be the toughest fight we've faced since the last war. The stakes have never been higher than this one; if we lose this . . . Great Britain is as good as gone. So that's why, right now, I won't ask any of you to follow me, and fight for your lives, but fight for those you love and cherish back home."

"We'll fight sir," Reynolds's eye's widened a bit as a Sergeant by the name of John Davis spoke, "whatever it takes." And this announcement was followed by the rest of the battalion's troopers.

Reynolds nodded once, and then grinned. "Then let's go kill some Commies." And his grin was mirrored by nearly every soldier a moment later.

* * *

Field Marshal Robert Bingham was in the underground situation room, watching the event unfold before his aged eyes. All around him, Allied personnel milled about their respective duties as they prepared for what was the most important battle the Free World has ever known, as after today, the fate of the Free World lies on a balance.

And they were right in the thick of it.

"Put the Commodore on the line, tell him we need those planes in the air by the time those bastards get within range of the city for a coastal bombardment." The others within hearing range of him began to scramble, quickly putting his orders to effect.

Bingham sighed as he watched the satellite feed on the main screen of the room, "I hope that's enough, it's all up to you now."

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_** FINALLY done! Took me a heck of a lot of time to write, and I'm very happy indeed. I would like to express my greatest form of gratitude to Peptuck, whose story _'Tiberium Wars'_ really inspired me to change my writing style and approach to military fictions. He is by far the _best_ military fiction writer on this site, no equals whatsoever.

So, that's all for me today. And thank you to all those who reviewed and PM'ed me to continue writing, thank you!

Until next chapter . . .


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